What it Means to Survive
by micro.soutan
Summary: Following the conclusion of final chapter, the heroes are still learning how to deal with their new lives. (Somewhat of an alternate interpretation on the epilouge, with more of a realistic approach?)
The world is peaceful. Not words that can be spoken very often, given Cocoon's history. Considering that it's people had survived the worst of a civil war, a falling out with literal demigods, and _plummetting_ into a new world, only to build themselves up again on the grassy lands of Gran Pulse, peace, was a surprise. Peace was something that some of the civillans had never really known. Especially not _those_ kids. The 4 that everyone had come to know as the "Heroes of Cocoon."

For these heroes, peace came at a price that few knew of.

That's why they were here today, _back_ , actually, from their lives of relative peace. Like always, sunlight managed to break through the foliage and reflect a dazzling light off of the crystalline sculptures. The meadow was beautiful, like all of Gran Pulse. Covered in hollies and bright pink dasies that smelled like sugar. Alphine trees lined the area, their thick leaves protecting the party from the harsh sun. But despite this favorable weather, in spite of the beauty of it all, the atmosphere was somber. All eyes were piercing the statue in front of their unoffical leader, like it had done some unforgiviable offense.

"Claire..." a pink haired girl, eyes the color of sapphires, grabs her sisters hand. The soilder stiffens at the contact, but doesn't shy away at this. Not from Serah, who's voice was made of honey and heart of gold. Although the younger Farron is a head shorter, there's a power to her movements today. A strength that only the kind possessed. Her sister was strong, too. Claire "Lightning" Farron was a soilder, in blood and spirit. Her eyes were the same blue as her sisters, hair just a shade lighter, but her face was sharper. More aware and angry. Constantly angry, because she was strong, but not strong _enough._ The hand that was not holding Serah's, clenched, and Lightning could feel the nails breaking skin as she tried to relax, if only a little. She had come to pay her respects, as always.

There were 6 heroes. That was the tale. When it was prophesised by the Powers that Be that Coccoon would fall, many saw this as an omen of an oncoming war that would tear the world asunder, and 6 heroes would come at mankinds darkest hour to save them all from ruin. In a way, that was right. There were 6.

A boy, about Sereah's age, stepped towards Lightning. His hair was the same color of the sunlight, a dazzling white that was soft like snow. His verde eyes shone with tears, but he wasn't going to cry. He was taught better than to cry over a won battle. Lightning wouldn't approve. So instead of speaking, Hope merely walked to his teacher's side and grabbed her clenched hand, gently unfurling it and holding it in his own. Here, Lightning's jaw clenched, but she _still_ couldn't find her voice. As the youngest, Hope had always been something of a moral concious for them all. He was the voice of reason at times, the sage that no one expected, but everyone desprately needed.

"We'll get them back, someday."

6 words, simple enough and spoken with unwavering faith, shook Lightning to the core. It wasn't visible on her features, except for a slight twitch of the eyebrow. But she was relieved. That kind of optimisim was _enough_ , when words failed her. When nothing calmed her, Hope would do what he did best, and he'd save her from agonizing over their loss. Like the Farron sisters, Hope knew of loss. He was an orphan, like the two of them had been, and if it weren't for Lightning, he'd be _dead_. He could only feel gratitude as the older woman gave his hand a gentle squeeze of acknowledgement. He wasn't a warrior, not in the same vein that Lightning and Snow and the others were, but he was a hero, all the same.

The aforementioned man finally stepped off his place on the tree. Snow was never a quiet man. No one who knew the mechanic would ever use _peaceful_ to describe him, in appearance or manner. He was wildly kind, like his wife and best friend Serah, but he was also _wild._ Boorish, in size and demeanor. But for once, his mouth had stayed shut. He payed his respects in a dfferent way than the others, because he saw it differently. The four of them, they weren't heroes. The crystalline structure before them confirmed just that. The four of them were _survivors_.

Fal'Cie, a title that holds no meaning in a new world, where the sun is powered through natural means and not by the will of a benevolent god. In their former lives, these gods ran Cocoon, touched the earth with their talents and made Coccon the floating savehaven that it once was. The problem is, was, that all gods need acolytes. The Fal'Cie were no different, and sought out desperate humans, the unknowing, to do their bidding as mystics. Humans touched by the hand of God, ll'Cie. It was as a blessing to those none the wiser, and a curse to everyone else. A contract, to do the god's bidding or _die_ , rot in a crystalline stasis. Such was the rules. If one wanted to save their town from destruction, recover a loved one, or do something as noble as save the entire _world,_ certian guidelines needed to be followed.

The prophecy that spoke of 6 heroes, never took this into account. It never took into factor in what it meant to be a survivor. With the power bestowed upon them, the 6 ll'Cie had slowly begun a journey, each of them on a personal mission. But this turned into a goal, a desperate ploy to salvage the world they knew from ruin by the hands of the gods that crafted it.

"Everything has a price, Light." Snow's voice was deep and clearly audible, even if his head was bent. "We _made_ it, didn't we? Saved all those people. And it..." he trailed off here, because he didn't know what to say. _No_ one knew what to say when visiting a grave. His fingers touched the crystalline structure that none of them could look away from, and it was like touching the surface of a pond. Cool, rippling. Yet no matter how hard he pushed, it was solid to it's core.

"Fuck, Snow!" she barked, her cerulean eyes a cladistine picture of fury. Thankfully, the present company were used to it. Lightning was a complex woman, and if she could grieve through anger, then she'd do it. "Didn't we defy the odds once? Our whole thing is 'beating fate', right? We were supposed to _die_ , with them. So if you're telling me that..." she was cut off from her tirade by a gentle squeeze of her hand. She looked down to Hope, still a foot shorter but all the more confident. He spoke no words but the look in his eyes, stern and focused, was enough.

"We're not... we're not here to dig up old wounds, or talk about 'what could have been.' Vanille always liked these flowers, right?" she lets go of her sister and student's hands, bending down to touch one of the poppies. At the spoken name, all present company seemed to feel a shift in the tension. Lightning was the one holding all the terseness of the situation, apparently. And with the spoken name, some kind of barrier had fnally been broken. The anger she held, the frustation that came with helplessness, it dissipatied in the sanctuaray that she shared with her friends. It was in the groove, that their adventures had come to a definite end. The crystalline statues of their fallen friends, or rather, their _friends_ encased in crystal, served as two things. A burial ground, of sorts, for the adventures that they had on the journey. And a starting point. It had been in this groove that all four of them had awoke, to find that their crests, the marks of the curse, had been lifted. That they had succeeded in saving their world from utter destruction.

A lengthy silence was shared between the four friends. Hope tilted his head onto Lightning's shoudler, and the normally stoic woman didn't shy away. Snow took a step forward, grabbing Serah's free hand and brushing it, silently reassuring her.

The world was peaceful, yes, but the survivors still fought something. Even if they were heroes to the people now, their journey wouldn't be over until they got their friend's back. Or at the very least, put their own phantoms to rest.


End file.
